Happy Ending
by phfina
Summary: Chapter 6: Of all the insolent, ... egalitarian ... “Good morning, Mistress”? What next? Shall we all break bread together at the same table, too?
1. Mrs Royce King II

**Synopsis**: What if Royce King II hadn't been in that alleyway between Vera's house and the Hale's? What if he had only gotten stupid drunk that night, woken up the next day, and married Rosalie the following week, and she had her three children, just like she wanted? Wouldn't this be her "Happily Ever After"? What would that look like?

**Setting**: circa June, 1950, King family estate, Rochester, NY.

**Chapter summary: **_Her_ again? I thought Royce didn't go in for repeats ... but he does so love his Scotch, doesn't he?

* * *

Mrs. Royce King II.

That's who I am now, Mrs. Royce King II, or Mrs. King, or Mother, or, hardly ever at all any more: Rosalie. The only person in my life that calls me that now is Vera, and I rarely see her, given the many social obligations I have.

Besides, she lives on East end, whereas we? The Kings? We have a palatial house on the West End of Rochester on large grounds.

Well, that is our primary residence.

One could say that we practically rule the city from our estate.

Because we do.

There isn't a shop or business that is not owned or beholden to the King family.

So material things? I don't even have to think of them any more, what I desire, I have, and if I don't, it simply takes a look or nod, and then it's mine.

"Money is no object." Not to some, but to the King family, it is an object, and we simply move it around from one account to another. It would be tedious to keep track of it all, but that's what one has accountants and CPAs and wealth management staff for.

Estates? Yes. Money? Yes. Staff? Yes. Servants? Yes. Children?

Yes.

I had wanted two boys and a girl, and when we had our first-born, I was so pleased, for we were right on track. I had wanted to name the boy Walter, after my father, but Royce would have none of that. He had his own familial obligations. So 'Royce King III' it was.

But then we had Constance, which threw me off a bit, so we tried again.

That's when we had Charity.

And then we were unable to have children, and haven't had any for the past ten years now.

Well, to do her credit, Charity is a lovely girl. All my children are beautiful, of course, just like me, Rosalie King, née Hale. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, proper, obedient ... perfect. Just like me, ... and Royce.

And strangely enough, it was my girls with whom I have a much stronger connection. Odd, because Mother and I never had a relationship at all, not even until now. It was always strained before I was married off, and now it's simply just cordial.

For my son, Royce III, and myself ...

I wish I could say I knew him at all. I wish I knew how my son's mind worked, but behind those distant eyes of his was an impenetrable mind.

I, myself, am not of an affectionate nature, but at least my daughters and I, well, at least we relate, at least we have conversations at the dinner table, at least they answer me respectfully when asked a question.

My son? Off in a corner with a book, not hearing one word I say. Ever. Even at meal times, as soon as the food is on the table, he eats a bite, takes a bite with him, and is off in his room, reading.

I had my fears about that boy. He is the heir apparent. He has responsibilities. Responsibilities that are fast approaching him. He's already fifteen, now. So we had sent him off to private school, to strengthen his education, yes, but also to form some kind of character in him.

And one day, he asked about the "one, true church," citing some papist nonsense. I asked him where he got these ideas, and he showed me: the _Summa Theologica._ He had actually read more than a few pages of it, too.

I made Royce come with me on that meeting with the school's administrator. The idiot spouted ideas about "rigorous thinking" and other things that he may have been talking to the wall about, because I had already stood to take my leave.

We cut that school right off, and had Royce III out that day.

I thought perhaps education abroad? So we considered England until Royce III said something eagerly about studying Fordyce's and Taylor's and Hartley's Sermons.

I thought anything would be better than Popery, but, oh, dear, Anglicanism? The Kings are (just as the Hales are) Presbyters. We need no such episcopal ideas running rampant in our household!

We sent our son to Australia, instead. At least that way he would man up.

Unfortunately, he did. He returned from those wilds a year later entirely changed. And now, here he is, fifteen years old, rebellious, implacable, impenetrable, inscrutable, calm, self-assured, set in his conceits on the inside, and a perfect, chiseled exemplar of manhood on the outside tried and tested in the wilds of the Australian outback.

So like his father.

At least, that what I think he is. He "Yes, Mother"'s me absentmindedly, but there now seems to be this untouchable core to him that I cannot reach.

I do not know my own son.

Yes, I am Mrs. Royce King II, and I have it all.

So why do I feel so ...

I shook my head, freeing them of such trifling thoughts. This night Royce was to do his marriage duty, and I had to be properly disposed, because my husband seemed distracted after having returned from the gentleman's club and at supper tonight.

I sent him off to his study with his smoking jacket where he would savor his Rémy Martin XO to ease whatever was troubling him, but ...

Of course, Royce was a Scotch man, but I had learned his rule though more than a decade of repetition: Scotch is savored before the meal; Cognac, after. It served him well when it was obeyed, and it made everything in the household go so much more smoothly when he wasn't upset.

Royce entered the bed chamber abruptly, interrupting my reflections.

"My dear," he said distractedly, not looking at me. His valet helped him into his night clothes and then left along with my maid.

Royce got into bed, covered himself, and turned from me.

I touched his shoulder, tentatively: "Royce ..." I began.

"Not tonight," he snapped back in irritation, "I'm not in the mood!"

And he huddled into himself more.

_Not in the mood?_ What's not to be 'in the mood'? Today was Wednesday. He did his marriage duty on Wednesdays. It was like clockwork. Wednesday: marriage duty. There was nothing to be in the mood about.

_Men._

Well, there was nothing for it. He was being a petulant child for whatever reason, so I would just have to help him along.

And so I did. I had been married to him for more than sixteen years, so it would require no effort from me, really.

And he was a man, so it would require no effort from me, really.

"No," he whined as I began my caresses with hands and lips, "I don't want ..."

But even if Royce seemed to mind, 'little Royce' didn't. I lifted my night gown, mounted Royce, and took what he was required to give me.

It took rather longer than the usual three seconds that it normally does.

But, as usual, he was asleep before he finished emptying himself into me.

I dismounted, went to my side of the bed, and as I thought what this meant, I kept my hips raised. We hadn't had a child in ten years, but I was still in my mid-thirties, there was still a chance for another boy if our heir apparent failed to carry the King name forward into the next generation.

Why was Royce 'not in the mood'?

He hadn't been 'not in the mood' for about a year.

I was out of the bed, Royce snoring heavily, and down the hall, and down the stairs into the foyer, racing, stately, with measured steps, at the same speed that that thought, and the following conclusions, raced through my head.

Then I went downstairs.

"Mrs. Wilson," I called out.

Downstairs was bustling with the servants' activities, but that all stopped at the sound of my voice and with the knowledge that the Mistress of the house was present ... downstairs.

"Yes, Mrs. King," Mrs. Wilson, the housekeeper, materialized out of nowhere right in front of me. Uncanny how she could be nowhere one moment and then right in front of one in the next instant.

I had learned a long time ago what was meant when an unmarried woman, a servant, took the name "Mrs. Wilson." Growing up in the Hale household, we had our own 'Mrs. Wilson' who was in no way related to the woman standing attentively in front of me. She had had another name, a long time ago; I don't remember what it was.

She was Royce's first, of many, conquests in this house.

And, following Mother's advice, she was my first conquest, too.

My first of many.

But if I had paid careful attention to my looks and figure over the year, growing even more beautiful with a very strict discipline and regimen — I'm proud to say that I'm the envy of girls half my age — Mrs. Wilson's hard life was unkind to her. She easily looked twenty years older than her forty years. Rail thin, lined face ... careworn.

Hardworking, unshakeable, yes: indispensable.

For me, now, particularly.

"Mrs. Wilson," I repeated, glaring at her, beginning, but then I suddenly remembered that we had a rather large audience, all staring at us, so I changed course quickly, "I think I need a fag, would you take a smoke with me outside?"

Mrs. Wilson was the perfect servant. Her expression didn't change an iota as she and I left the work area to retire to the rear courtyard. I heard the frenetic cleaning activity and preparation work for tomorrow of the servants renew, but this time with more than a susurration of speculation.

I ignored that; I had other, more important, things to discover.

It was a little bit chilly for a June evening, but I wasn't planning on having a long conversation outside.

Mrs. Wilson lit two cigarettes and passed me one. I broke off and discarded the filter and took a long drag. Actually, the smoke did me a world of good. I was wound tight from the activity from a disinclined Royce and then the following thoughts. After that pull, I felt full of energy. I felt I could take on anybody and scratch their eyes out.

Even Royce. Even his lover from today.

I checked the area ... nobody else decided to have a smoke now ... wisely.

"Mr. King has been downstairs in need of something?" I asked Mrs. Wilson. It wasn't a question.

Mrs. Wilson looked away. "Yes," she began quietly, "He said he ..."

I ground the fag underfoot. "Let's go," I said curtly, barely containing my rage. I was ready to kill somebody _right now_, but we really couldn't afford to lose Mrs. Wilson. Irreplaceable. Besides, it wasn't her fault.

This time.

Nor even that time, all those years ago. It was Royce and his little Royce then as well, as it was now.

Mrs. Wilson looked back at me calmly, but also with a touch of pity in her eyes. That annoyed me to no end. I had to remind myself that it wasn't in my best interest to kill her right now.

"Yes, Mrs. King," she responded obediently.

She also extinguished her fag, saving the mostly unsmoked cig for later, and we returned to servants area. Most of the servants had retired to bed by now, what with their very early start of on the morrow.

Mrs. Wilson led me to the servants quarters.

Up to Moira's door.

Moira.

Moira was the girl a year ago. A little brown-haired Scottish thing. Royce's type: he liked the spirit (single malt, of course, and aged at least 21 years) and he like the girls (but he wasn't as particular about the age here ... or the malt).

Moira had had a miscarriage as the result of their trysting — very sad — and Royce had lost interest, as he always does, regardless.

It appears he had regained some interest.

I nodded to Mrs. Wilson. She rapped firmly three times on the door. And I prepared to visit something much worse than the Wrath of God upon her.

Me.

Mrs. Royce King II.

* * *

[1] This piece was influenced by the movie _Gosford Park._ I also received inspiration from geophf's MSR "A Bottle of Scotch" chapter. This story departs from the history told in Eclipse, ch 7, and is also heavily influenced by geophf's "Rose by a Lemon Tree," the sub-chapters of "Her Name: Mother," particularly the mother-daughter talk ("Birds and Bees") and the fall-out caused by it ("PS: The Help"). That, as well as the conversation I had with Jocelyn Torrent about Rosalie's happiness now (or lack thereof) as a vampire, conceived this idea.

Yes, geophf's my brother. No, Jocelyn's not my sister. Ideas used by permission.

[2] _Summa Theologica,_ St. Thomas Aquinas, freely available in its entirety on the 'net.

[3] Fordyce's Sermons are mentioned in _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen. Mr. Collins seemed to think it an excellent idea to read them out to the Bennett girls.

[4] Smoking is used throughout this story for period accuracy. This writer does not condone smoking, and the Surgeon General says ... blah-blah-blah.


	2. Moira … and Sarah

**Chapter summary:** What has happened to all the good help these days? This girl was just so disrespectful: defiant and feisty! She'd better lose that attitude before I ... wait: I like defiant and feisty — and she is a cute little thing — hm, I wonder ...

**WARNING: **I _don't _have to put that an M-Rated Rosalie piece is NSFW, do I?

* * *

The sound of Mrs. Wilson's authoritative knock still echoed in the hall when an insolent "Yah, we're both here in bed" answered it. It was said by a youthful voice I didn't recognize, accented with something like the Scottish brogue.

"Mrs. King is here to speak with you," Mrs. Wilson said commandingly but discreetly, a frown very apparent across her brow and in her delivery. I was glad that she was being discreet, but it was superfluous. In this house, the walls have ears.

"Saints preserve us!" exclaimed the same voice in a very much more terrified voice.

There was scrambling of activity and the door opened nearly immediately showing Moira in a plain, simple white shift. She backed up immediately, standing by the solitary bed that occupied half her tiny room.

Standing next to her was a girl who looked much younger than Moira, ... she looked about Constant's thirteen years, but she had to be older than that. She was black Irish: her pure black hair and eyes stood starkly contrasting her pale white skin.

I entered the tiny room and took a commanding presence in the center of it. Mrs. Wilson followed, then sniffed disapprovingly.

"Smoking is not allowed indoors," she said primly. "If you two are going to be smoking, avail yourselves to the courtyard."

The Irish girl piped up, "But we didn't ..."

Mrs. Wilson's scowl smote the girl into silence.

I turned to our head housekeeper and said dismissively, "Thank you, Mrs. Wilson."

She left immediately, closing the door behind her.

"Well?" I demanded, looking at them both fiercely.

Moira immediately dropped her eyes, and, like the commoner she was, her face colored with her shame. _Aha! _I thought victoriously, _Moira, dear, you've been caught._

The other girl looked at me with open curiosity.

She certainly was a defiant little thing. My attention shifted to her.

"You," I barked, "what's your name?"

She blinked, surprised and unbalanced. "My name is Sarah, ma'am."

Moira whispered out of the corner of her mouth: "Mrs. King."

The girl Sarah corrected herself. "Mrs. King," she amended quickly.

"Well," I huffed, "Sarah," I added. I didn't like her name, and I didn't like her for some reason. _New hires!_ So difficult to find good, obedient, respectful help these days. "You may not be acquainted with the rules of the King household," I continued angrily, "but when I have certain matters concerning certain goings on 'to discuss' with certain persons ..." I glared meaningfully at Moira, "then uninvolved parties may occupy themselves with other things in another room."

Sarah looked at me dumbly.

I sighed. She was mentally addled, too. The help these days.

"Get," I growled, skillfully allowing some of the rage I felt to come out in my voice, "out!" I commanded to Sarah.

Sarah made to leave, but a light touch from Moira on Sarah's shoulder, and a whispered "Sarah, stay," from her, stopped the new girl in her tracks. Sarah now looked very lost.

I rather felt exactly the same way, but I was good at channeling that into anger, which I now directed to that disrespectful Moira.

Gainsaying her superiors? Her employer? Her _mistress?_ She knew better than that.

"What?" I shouted to her. _"What?"_

Moira dropped her eyes, nearly quaking.

"Did not Mr. King have his way with you!" I snarled.

"Yes, Mistress, but ..." she replied meekly.

Servants were always trying to justify themselves.

"Well, then, ..." I began, cutting her off, but Sarah interrupted me.

"He had his way with me, _too,"_ she piped up.

That stopped me cold. I turned to the new girl. "What?" I couldn't mask my befuddlement behind anger now, I was disappointed to observe.

"That's why I asked Sarah to stay, Mistress," came a quiet, humble voice from the other guilty party, "he ... Mr. King ... he took ... both of us."

I looked between the two girls, one with downcast eyes, the other looking back at me.

"At the same time?" I gasped out.

Moira's face colored more, and Sarah just nodded. Moira added quietly: "He dinna spill his seed inside me, but he had me ..." But then she couldn't continue.

_My goodness!_ I thought Royce hadn't a creative bone in his body when it came to these things. I guess I had thought incorrectly.

But then my pondering turned naughty.

"Show me," I said, and I couldn't suppress the wicked grin wreathing my face.

"What?" Sarah gasped. Now the unshakable Sarah seemed to be taken by surprise.

A gentle hand on Sarah shoulder stopped her. "It's okay, Sarah," Moira said.

"But in front of _her?"_ Sarah waved angrily at me.

We really would have to work on this discipline problem. But new hires, and new lovers, required extra ... _attention_, anyway, so I let the impertinence pass.

Moira sat on the bed, pulling Sarah down with her. Sarah gave me and my crossed arms and smirk a spiteful look, but that look soon melted. Moira kissed Sarah, ...

... passionately.

Moira's eyes were closed and she pressed herself firmly against Sarah. Sarah's look of surprise melted into passion returned, entirely forgetting there was an imperious observer in the room.

Both girls fell onto the small bed, kissing and touching and stroking each other tenderly. Soft cries and moans came first from Moira and then from Sarah as both girls gave themselves to each other; each struggling to remove her lover's shift more quickly.

The imperious observer wasn't so imperious anymore. _That's so fucking hot!_ I thought as I watched the very erotic and tender moment unfold before me. I disrobed quickly and joined them on the bed, spooning into Sarah.

Sarah gasped in surprise when I pressed against her, but her gasps were soon silenced by Moira's full-mouthed kisses, and they soon turned to mews of pleasure at Moira's ministrations ... and my own. I was rubbing against her passionately and peppering her neck and shoulder with light kisses.

I felt Sarah's passion begin to rise at our joint effort, but then I thought of something.

Every girl wants to have her own baby, right? And Royce was withholding that favor from poor Moira who had already suffered heartbreak, so ...

"Stop, stop," I commanded gently. "Sarah, wait! Moira, stop!"

Sarah cried out in confused frustration, but Moira did stop, and Sarah came down from her excited high.

"Sarah, I want you to watch me, and then do what I do," I told her.

I rolled Sarah off of Moira, laying her back against the wall and then turned to Moira.

"Moira, I want to fuck you right now; may I?" I asked.

Moira threw her head back into the solitary pillow and spread her legs to me.

"Oh, please, Mistress, please!" she cried.

I really wasn't too worried what her answer would be, but it appeared that Moira had become more than a little bit excited by this evening's events.

I also liked it when they begged me. That was sweet music to my ears.

I mounted Moira and pressed my vulva against hers, beginning to rub her gently and slowly at first until ...

"Harder," she begged, then added, _"please," _pushing her hips against mine.

The sensation was exquisite. Pure pleasure shocked me in every place where my body touched hers, but I needed more. I rubbed against her more forcefully and felt my own passion rise. Moira had her eyes closed and was biting her lower lip, whimpering with pleasure that _I_ was giving her.

And then I felt the change in her.

"Oh, oh, Mistress!" she cried. "I'm going to ... I'm going to ..."

And then I let go. I cried out in pleasure as I felt myself explode. I pushed myself against her as hard as I could as I came, my vulva pressed against hers. And I felt myself coming, coming hard, right into her.

I grunted as each of the contractions rocked me into her, and she came along with me, a throaty scream tearing itself out of her that she tried unsuccessfully to suppress as she gave herself over to the moment, gripping me tightly.

As my orgasm subsided, a new need overcame me, and I had to kiss her. I grabbed her head in my hands and my lips crashed against hers ... forcefully but gently, bruising neither of us, but I surely let her know my passion.

And Moira opened herself to me in that kiss, she gave me herself, and I took her, forcing my lips against hers, and my tongue into her mouth, and she gripped me tightly as she kissed me in return.

_God!_ Moira is such a good lover! Why hadn't I visited her sooner than this?

Our kiss was interrupted by an awed whisper: "Oh, my ... goodness!"

It appears little Sarah had seen something worthy of note.

And that Irish accent? I wanted to ravage her right now, despite the fact I had this intoxicating Scottish confection in my arms.

I gave Moira one more sweet and gentle kiss on the lips and then on the forehead, and held her to me for a second before I then turned and faced Sarah.

"Do you want to fuck Moira now?" I asked the girl cupping her own breast, her other hand looking so lost gripping her stomach.

Sarah blinked, looking caught between pure desire but also looking a bit lost. "Oh, yes! but ... I ... I never ..."

The poor girl looked torn until I said: "I will help you," at the same time Moira, dear Moira, held her hands our for Sarah.

I took Sarah's face in my hands and gently kissed her forehead.

"It's easy," I told her, "you just do what feels nice for you and nice for her."

"How will I know what's nice for her?" Sarah asked.

What a sweet girl! Thinking of the other girl like that. I kissed her again.

"You'll know because her body will tell you," I answered, and we both looked down at Moira lying on the bed.

Moira looked away from us, blushing, but she nodded in agreement.

"Okay ..." said Sarah hesitantly.

I looked at her gravely. "I will help you," I repeated.

Sarah nodded, and then went to Moira, placing herself on top as I did.

I bit my lower lip. How much should I guide, and how much should I let them discover?

"No," I said gently to Sarah, and pulled her into an upright sitting position. "You need to do this."

"Moira," I said to the girl lying down, caressing her left leg.

She understood. She lifted it for me, and I placed it so that her ankle rested on Sarah's shoulder.

"Here," I said to Sarah, and repositioned her so that her left leg draped over Moira's right, and her right leg curled back, supporting her sitting position.

"This is a little bit more complicated than what I did earlier, but it will help you, too, Sarah, okay?"

Sarah nodded. She had been rebellious before, but now she was trusting me. This was probably her first time with a girl, and she saw I had much more experience in these matters.

"Okay," I said, and I pressed her to Moira.

Sarah groaned.

"Sarah," I said, "take her. Take Moira and make her yours."

Sarah began rubbing. She bit her lower lip and then sounds of pleasure began to issue from her throat as she closed her eyes. She wrapped her arms around Moira's leg, holding it to her.

Very good.

I looked down at Moira. She was looking right into Sarah's face.

"Sarah," she whispered. "Oh, Sarah."

This was going much better than expected. I was very pleased with both of them.

I put my hand on Moira's breast, very gently caressing and squeezing it, and, as I did that, I turned to Sarah, and began kissing her face until she gasped, and that's when I kissed her full on the lips, wrapping her neck in my other arm, pulling her face to mine, kissing her deeply and passionately.

Sarah's grunting became desperate, then I felt her body tense up and then release, and she groaned into my mouth. I removed my hand from Moira's breast and wrapped Sarah in my embrace as I kissed her, pressing her hard against Moira, letting her love,

... and Royce's seed ...

flow down into Moira.

Just as I had done for Moira a few moments before.

Sarah collapsed into my embrace, and I gently laid her on the bed, next to Moira, and I laid next to Sarah. Both Moira and I held Sarah as she recovered.

"You did so well, sweetheart," Moira cooed to Sarah, and continued to shower her with soft caresses and sweet words as Sarah gasped to recover her breath.

Moira was such a sweet, caring girl. I really liked her.

Sarah held Moira, looking at her. "Did you ... did you ..."

"Shhh, sweetie, you need to rest," Moira said tenderly.

Of course Moira didn't come. Sarah was entirely new at this, I saw. But Moira was so forgiving and undemanding that she didn't mind; she just appeared pleased that Sarah received so much pleasure from the moment. I stroked Sarah's petite back as I admired the two lovers holding each other, enjoying the sweet moment of peace and contentment as the two girl held each other in a loving embrace.

I reflected sadly that these were the only times I ever felt that peace, when I was in another woman's arms with no expectations or worries, no fencing with my husband or discharging familial duties as the Mistress of the King household. I drunk in this moment as the two lovers drunk in each other; each experience peace in her own way.


	3. The Way Things Are

**Chapter summary: **_'Pfft!' _is how she described Royce. That's about right. I wonder how'd she describe me after tonight. Well, I mean, besides 'vampire' ...

* * *

Sarah nestled between Moira and me turned onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. "I never knew it could be like this!" she exclaimed.

Here I couldn't repress a snort. "Obviously, you haven't been with a woman before."

Sarah looked toward me and then looked away.

"I hadn't been with anyone before today," she said quietly.

Moira whispered in her ear: "Mistress."

"Mistress," Sarah added quickly.

My eyebrows came down and together. "How old are you, Sarah?" I asked.

"I'm eighteen, Mistress." Sarah answered.

I rolled my eyes. "No, really. How old are you?" I asked again. She looked much, much younger than eighteen.

Sarah looked down: "I'm really eighteen, Mistress."

"Hm," I said.

My first experience was when I was eighteen, but I thought the lower classes and commoners were sexually active at a younger age. Of course, Sarah had to say she was eighteen to be in our employ, so that meant she was either lying to earn a living for herself and send money back to her family so they could buy potatoes or whatever they ate in the bog in which they lived, or she really was eighteen and looked a very youthful eighteen.

Me, being thirty, for my third time (ladies in society celebrated their thirtieth birthday annually), it was harder to judge the age of one so young, so I let this pass.

"So Roy-... Mr. King was your first time?" I asked.

She nodded. "Yes. I thought it was supposed to be ... and it did feel nice at first, him kissing on me, and touching me, and it felt really nice with Moira kissing me and holding me," she looked over at Moira, then continued, "but then it really hurt and then _pfft! _it was over before anything really ..."

And here Sarah stopped, and I felt her shrug.

That's my three-second wonder of a philandering husband; that's my Royce.

"Honey," I said factually, "that's what being with a man is like. Men _only_ think of themselves, that's how they're designed, so they just come right away then, after that, leave right away. And this, tonight, is how it is with women, because we _do_ nurture, we do think of the other, and care how she's feeling, and want her to be happy, too. And then want to hold her afterward, to cuddle. Weren't you thinking of Moira's happiness as you were with her, and aren't you happy holding her now? With men, they just want to do the deed and then make their getaway."

Sarah contemplated this in silence.

"Well," she said finally, "he didn't leave right away. _He_ was the one who was smoking in here; not me nor Moira!"

"Sarah!" Moira gasped.

"What? It's true!" Sarah answered her defiantly.

I looked up at the ceiling. "Sarah," I said quietly.

I heard Sarah's head turn to me. "It's true," she said, but this time sulkily, like a petulant child.

"Sarah," I said chidingly, "this is something I must explain to you, it appears. Mr. King is your employer. I am your employer. You cannot use these liaisons in any way; they are simply that. Moira is also too new to have seen this, but the girls who started putting on airs? Who became undisciplined, unruly, who went around Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Brown? They were out the door, blacklisted with scathing references to boot. We Kings own most of Rochester, but our reach is now international. You simply cannot take advantage of the ... increased intimacy with your employer. You cannot."

"I'm not, I'm just saying that ..." Sarah began hotly.

"Sarah!" Moira pleaded.

"Moira," I said severely. Sarah was undisciplined, but still salvageable. But Moira should not have forgotten her place, even as Sarah did.

"I'm sorry, Mistress," Moira said humbly.

My hand holding Sarah to me reached out to Moira's shoulder and patted it forgivingly.

"Sarah," I resumed. "You are 'just saying,' but you're saying it not to Mrs. Wilson, but to me. Mrs. Wilson is there for a reason."

"So I can tell Mrs. Wilson?" Sarah challenged.

Moira gasped.

"Certainly. If you are willing to accept the consequences." I said calmly.

"Consequences?" Sarah asked.

"You're from Ireland, I guess?" I probed.

"Yes ..." Sarah answered cautiously.

"And your papers are all in order?" I continued.

Sarah was quiet.

"You know," I said evenly, "they don't dump deportees into the Hudson and tell them to swim. But the boat they'll put you on? Maybe you'd prefer the swim. And meeting not your parents but the irate Irish authorities instead? Yes, you may report this to Mrs. Wilson, but you also must consider which fights you are willing to fight, and what you are willing to lose in the fights you do pick."

I continued. "Besides, so what? Mr. King was smoking in your room afterward. He is your employer; you are his servant. You simply have to take the fall."

"Why?" Sarah asked. "It's not fair." Well, at least her voice was quieter, but the rebellion was still there.

"It's not," I answered. "But that's just the way things are, and you can go anywhere you like in this country with the streets paved with gold, and you'll find, when you're working for somebody else, that's pretty much how things are done everywhere."

"So ..." Sarah seemed to be trying to understand what I was telling her. "I have to do whatever you want me to do?"

"I believe you are receiving a monthly check with the King imprint." I answered.

"So ... I have to let you and Mr. King 'fuck' me whenever you want to?" she rephrased. She said the word 'fuck' as if it was the first time she had ever said the word. Perhaps it was.

"Ah! Now I see. No, of course not," I answered.

"But you ..." she began, then stopped and didn't continue.

So I finished for her. "I thought you wanted me to. Didn't you receive any pleasure from my kisses?"

Sarah didn't answer.

"I think you did." I answered for her, then continued: "And don't you like me holding you now, as I enjoy your embrace, too?"

I waited.

Then: "Sarah?"

"Yes," she admitted quietly.

"Did you tell Mr. King 'no' and mean it?" I asked, looking over to her now, examining her blank face.

She looked at me quickly and then looked away.

"Would he have stopped if I did tell him 'no'?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Yes," I answered with conviction.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because if he didn't, he would answer to _me."_ I snarled the last word quietly but fiercely, and Sarah's eyes widened a bit in fear as I said this.

"But you didn't tell him 'no,' Sarah," I continued. "Be honest. Because I seem to recall that you said it felt 'nice' at first, his kisses and caresses."

I grimaced. I wish Royce paid me these attentions. But Mother was right. I was just the wife. I was only chattel, nothing more. There was no need for him to shower me with affection like he did during our engagement and stopped almost immediately after the wedding. No, he had other fillies to hunt, and I was now just another piece of furniture that he laid once a week ... when he was 'in the mood,' for heaven's sake!

"But," Sarah's now meek voice interrupted my ruminations, "if I tell him, or if I tell you, 'no,' ... you'll deport me."

"No, Sarah, never think that. Others may do that, or may hold that over you, but we don't need to." Then I smiled to myself. "If it's any consolation, you're not worth the trouble, ... so long as you don't make yourself worth the trouble. If you won't have me, Sarah, that's fine. If you won't have Mr. King, I'll make sure he understands that it'd better be fine with him. There are many on the staff that neither he nor I" _currently_ "have liaisons with. We aren't firing nor deporting them. And you were in our employ before particular attentions where paid ... and there are others on the staff who would be more than happy to replace you in the ... attentions received. Besides, you do not yet have this experience, but when a lover is unwilling, it's a very disagreeable experience for both parties. If you're not happy ... if you're sad in the arrangement ... it will discourage him more than soon enough."

That was an understatement. Could it properly be called 'lovemaking' when it felt like a chore, when I felt like I was just a receptacle that Royce emptied himself into? _And_ I could tell he found the whole exchange ... well, unrewarding.

A perfect marriage. That's what we appeared to everybody. Mr. and Mrs. King. The handsome man with everything and his beautiful wife. And we had perfect children. Wasn't this everything I ever wanted?

But then I heard a whispered sigh from the other side of the bed, and realized I had been speaking for more than myself just now. Moira had lost a baby, and I actually feared for a while that we would be losing her. Her bleakness entirely turned Royce off to her, and, I admit, it pushed me away, too. I couldn't stand being around such despondency, no matter how attentive she tried to appear on the outside. No matter that her selflessness never wavered during her dark period.

"But why me?" Sarah asked, bringing me back again.

I smiled to myself. If Moira was a study in selflessness, then Sarah, in her youth and inexperience, was a study in self-centeredness. It was always about her and always about 'why.'

Actually the two of them, Moira and Sarah, might make a very good couple, being so completely opposite.

I felt an impish desire to test the theory ... and it would bring Moira out of her recollection, too.

"I don't know," I said innocently. "Moira, tell us. Why Sarah?"

I heard Moira turn in the bed, so I turned my head. She was now turned completely toward Sarah, and she had propped her head up with her hand, her arm bent up from her elbow. She looked down at Sarah for a second, and Sarah looked toward Moira.

"Because you are beautiful," Moira started.

"Moira!" Sarah blushed and turned away, toward me. I nodded at Sarah, and she blushed more, closing her eyes.

Moira reached out with her other hand to Sarah's chin and turned Sarah's head back to face her.

"Because you are sweet," Moira continued. "Because you are feisty. Because you are able and industrious. Because you take pride in your work. Because you believe in what's right. Because you are kind. Because I ..."

Moira stopped suddenly. I looked to her. Her eyes were shining, and then two tears raced down her cheeks, splashing onto the bed.

_God!_ She was so beautiful. In her own way, so innocent and pure of heart.

"Say it, Moira," I commanded.

Moira's eyes widened, but then she closed them tightly, causing more tears to fall, and shook her head vigorously. She turned away from both Sarah and me, hunching up into a ball on the edge of the bed.

Well, children like Moira and Sarah could play with their own and each other's emotions, giving deep significance to their longings — ever notice that all poetry is written by children and read by children? You won't find me reading such romantic drivel — but I had little patience for such foolishness. I looked into Sarah's confused face and whispered, "Because she loves you."

Now Sarah's eyes widened with shock, and I heard a gasp from Moira, but she still stayed huddled up in a ball.

Sarah turned to the ball that was Moira and tentatively put a hand on her shoulder blade. Moira jerked as if shocked.

"Is it true?" Sarah asked quietly.

"Sarah," I sighed, "tell Moira you love her."

I tried to keep the impatience from my voice. I really did. In fact, I was rather pleased that voice sounded both filled with patience and wisdom.

After all, it was obvious that they loved each other. I just didn't understand this waiting a certain amount of time or having to do something for the other to declare or to test love. Moira called out Sarah's name lovingly during their passionate coupling and then went over the laundry list of her admirable qualities that would keep any poet in good favor and money for quite a lengthy employment. Sarah obviously reciprocated the feeling. What was the point of agonizing over something so clearly present?

Sarah looked back at me, and I nodded, smiling.

"Moira," Sarah began. "I ..."

You could cut the tension in the room with a knife.

I tried not to yawn, nor to look at the clock.

Sarah tried again. She whispered: "I love you, Moira."

Now I did smile sincerely. When you've won half the battle like this, you've won the war. I pushed against Sarah's back, pushing her into Moira, and I heard it: the quietest of whispers from Moira.

"I love you, too, Sarah."

And Sarah was holding Moira, and I was about to tell her to start kissing the girl, but I didn't need to, as she was doing that of her own volition, kissing her lover's back with soft, sweet kisses.

And Moira was crying. Quiet sobs were gasping out of her as she huddled into herself, and the bed was shaking a bit from her emotion. And Sarah whispered an occasional wonder-filled "I love you" or "I love you, Moira." Each time she said those words, it was if she were discovering the fact for the first time.

Then Moira did turn around. It was if she made a decision. She put both her hands on Sarah's face, and looked right into her eyes and said: "I love you, Sarah."

And then Moira brought Sarah to her, and she kissed her. Kissed her full on the lips. Moira's eyes were closed and her face was filled with devotion as she kissed her lover, and I could imagine Sarah had much the same look, for she, too, held Moira to her and returned that kiss with equal passion.

_Ah!_ I sighed: all's well that ends well ... and all that Shakespearian nonsense. I came into the room with a very different purpose than what had unfolded, but I would be leaving happily, with two more people happier than when I entered. That was nice.

It was also convenient that Sarah would now have Moira to keep her in line. Usually _I_ had to shepherd a girl through a tryst with Royce, usually becoming her lover, and at any rate, putting the fear of the Mistress of the household into her. Always a delicate balance between me, Royce and the girl: keeping him in the dark and happy, keeping her productive, not rebellious but not crushing her, and keeping me ... well, _satiated._

With Sarah as Moira's lover, that would be one less thing I needed to concern myself with, and I had many concerns, being, after all, the _true_ head of the King household.

With that thought I decided to leave the two love birds to their happy sighing, but then I noticed Moira and Sarah were doing something much more than just kissing each other.

Moira's hand had travelled down to Sarah's buttocks, pulling Sarah's hips to hers. Their legs where entwined, and they had started to rub against each other, soft mews of pleasure coming from one or the other girl ... or both; I couldn't tell.

And I didn't care. As I had observed before, _that's so hot._ And I suddenly realized I was feeling a little excited myself.

Well, more than a _little_ excited.

I scooted up to Sarah and whispered a "May I ...?"

Moira broke off her kiss with Sarah, agreeing with me with her eyes, but asked for confirmation: "Sarah?"

Sarah grunted, throwing her head back against my shoulder, and murmured desperately: _"Please!"_

It seemed like Sarah didn't mind being sandwiched again.

My left hand snaked beneath them, questing, but I could not wedge it between the two girls, as much as I wanted to: they were locked together — one flesh — and I would have to pry them apart to indulge myself that way.

So I didn't. My hand below continued in its questing, and quickly met my hand above, resting on Moira's rump. Each girl was holding tightly onto each other, and I pulled them both forcefully to me, gripping on Moira's backside. Moira removed her hands from Sarah and placed them lightly on my buttocks; that felt very, very nice. And Sarah's pert but perfectly rounded bottom? I pressed my vulva against that perfection, opening my labia to her cheek, feeling the friction against my clitoris arouse me powerfully.

"Moira!" I commanded: "Hold me more tightly!" If there was one issue I had with that girl, it was that she was too mild, too gentle. But she was also compliant, and she complied now, gripping me firmly. I used that support, and I began rubbing very forcefully and rapidly against Sarah in my excitement.

It was amazing how quickly I was elevated beyond reason. I heard myself grunting with the effort and desire, but I also heard the two girls give and receive pleasure to each other as they rubbed against each other passionately.

"Oh, God!" I cried. "I'm going to come!"

Poor Sarah! She was entirely surrounded. Whichever direction she turned she exposed herself to more and more pleasure. The young girl was overcome by the sensations, and I felt herself give into it. Sarah cried out, and I felt her body tense, and I shouted to Moira, "Kiss her! Kiss her hard!" and I pushed Sarah to Moira, and I felt Moira letting go as she kissed Sarah.

I screamed out my orgasm, and then, totally out of control, my head bent down to Sarah, and I bit her shoulder; I bit it hard.

Sarah screamed with commingled pain and pleasure into Moira's mouth, and then I felt her body go entirely slack as I sucked on the pure peppery heat that was Sarah as I felt my own fluids spray against her.

Sense returned to me. My lips were attached to Sarah's shoulder, and I tasted iron. I tasted blood.

Sarah was out, completely overcome by the moment, and Moira was looking at me with concern.

I removed my lips from Sarah's shoulder and said to Moira: "Taste her," pushing Sarah's shoulder to her.

Moira hesitated, so I said: "Quickly, before her blood stains the bedding."

Moira complied, attaching her lips to Sarah's shoulder. She grimaced as she tasted the blood.

I kissed Moira on her forehead very gently. "She's yours," I whispered.

I don't know why my voice sounded so sad.

* * *

[1] I got Sarah's description of how _it_ was with Royce from the Swedish film "Fucking Åmål" (under the title of "Show Me Love" at rental stores, such as Hollywood Video). It's also available for free on google video, too (but the quality is much, much better on DVD). A short, sweet, BxRose (sort of) movie. I describe it on my profile page.

[2] Ethnic discrimination against _any _newcomers, including Scots and Irish, was still _very _prevalent in the 1950s, so Rosalie's easy stereotyping of Moira and (mostly) Sarah is accurate for the period. I've seen in some people it's still accurate today, but I hope not so much as it used to be.

[3] This writer does not espouse the views expressed in this story. Yes, I know I wrote them, but that's what being 'in character' and 'in the times' mean, okay? In fact, if her employer gave her "that's the way things are" speech when it came to her love life or lifestyle choices, she would so Title VII (anti-discrimination/sexual harrassment) them into oblivion. But in 1950, in a rich person's employment, there were probably goings-on very much like the ones described here.


	4. The Offer

**Chapter summary: **I hope they're smart enough to accept my offer to be my personal maids. What? They'd _work_ for me. Of course, it'd be entirely professional! No hanky-panky at all ... well, none during work hours. But afterwards ... Well, a woman has needs.

* * *

I sat up quickly on the bed and then located my night gown.

"That will need to be treated against possible infection," I dictated to Moira. I went to the door: "See to it that you talk to Mrs. Wilson for first aid."

I opened the door. Mrs. Wilson was standing there with a first aid kit in hand, still dressed in her work-a-day wear, not in her night shift. It was if she knew she'd be working into this night.

"Ah!" I said surprised. "Mrs. Wilson, I see you've anticipated me."

I held out my hand for the kit, but Mrs. Wilson looked away for a second, then opened the kit and put something into my hand. It was a moist towelette. Mrs. Wilson's eyes were on my face.

I wiped my face. The towelette came away red-stained.

Mrs. Wilson pushed past me silently, and sat on the bed. She started to minister to Sarah, still unconscious, and handed Moira a moist towelette. Moira had red on her forehead, too, where I had kissed her. Moira wiped that and her mouth.

Mrs. Wilson turned to me: "I can take care of them now, Mrs. King," and she busied herself with the iodine and bandages.

Hm. Was somebody feeling jealous — or angry ... or both — with me? I stayed and watched.

With the skill that Mrs. Wilson applied herself to field dressing the wound, one would think she had been a nurse on the front lines in the Second World War (or, from her looks, the First), but I knew that to be false. She had stayed here and watched another war, the one between Royce and me. Well, she did get quite a bit of experience as I left my mark on each of Royce's lovers that also accepted me.

Which, very surprising for me, was not all of them. I had thought, between the three-second wonder Royce and myself, every girl would throw herself at my feet, but some actually felt an _affection for Royce_ — can you believe it? I can't! — and showed no preference for me at all.

Which was fine, so long as they understood the proper order of things in the King household. I put the fear of God — or more correctly: _me_ — in every girl who entered into intimate relations with either of us. Some didn't get the message; unfortunately for them. They are now finding their way through some part of the world that doesn't fall under the King influence. Maybe they found somebody to be a good little wifey to, because they surely didn't find any employment in a business under the influence of the King family.

You do not cross a King. Especially me: Mrs. Royce King II.

"Moira," I called out to the girl looking so helpless and concerned over her lover.

She looked up from Sarah's face and came over to me. She had a wonderful figure. She was beautiful — not as beautiful as me, of course — but she had that elfin, Scottish look that clothed her with humility and dignity, even in her nakedness.

"Yes, Mistress," she said humbly, not looking at me.

"I'd like you and Sarah to become my personal maids, if you're willing," I said.

Moira did look at me now, in confusion. "Which one of us, Mrs. King?" she asked.

"Both of you," I replied.

"But ..." Moira began, but then stopped herself.

"What?" I demanded. "A woman can have two personal maids, there's no law against it."

There was no law against it, but it had never been done. Well, maybe the Queen of England had more than one maid, but ...

But.

If Royce could have his way with these two girls at the same time, well, then I could have two personal maids.

That I chose the same two girls was entirely coincidental.

In the original meaning of the word.

Moira looked down.

"Think about it," I told her, "talk it over with Sarah, and then let Mrs. Wilson know tomorrow or the next day," I said. "But know this: this will be an entirely professional relationship, and this is in no way a promotion for either of you. You will work only and not engage in relations with either me nor her while on duty. And," I added, "you will be under my protection."

"Mrs. King, ..." she said quietly.

I crossed my arms and raised my eyebrow, looking down at the girl.

"Yohr ..." She looked away, but then looked back at me and pressed forward. "You're not going to take Sarah away from me, are you?"

I snorted. "Why would I do that?" I asked dismissively. "You two seem to be designed for each other."

This didn't seem to console Moira at all, so I said seriously: "No, I'm not going to take Sarah away from you, Moira."

Moira looked down and nodded. After a second she said: "What if we ... don't choose to become your personal maids?"

I shrugged. "Then you'll continue working in your current capacity."

"You won't sack us, Mrs. King?" she asked.

"No," I said, lifting her chin so that she looked at me in the eye. I could be hard and ruthless, but I was also fair and just. "There is no censure in your choice either way. I offer this to you and Sarah. I think it may benefit you both." I didn't clarify how. "But if you see otherwise, that does not affect your employment as it is now."

Moira nodded again.

I made to leave, but turned back. "Oh, and tell Sarah that I'm not a vampire, or anything like that, okay?"

There was no telling what an impressionable young girl from the Old World might believe. For all I knew, she left part of her meals out the back door for the fairies and leprechauns, for goodness sake!

I turned again but heard a whisper, so I turned right back. "What?" I demanded.

Moira, if it were at all possible, was looking lower onto the floor, and was rubbing a year-old bite mark on her shoulder.

"Aren't you?" she whispered.

I closed my eyes and blew out a sigh. "Oh, for the love of ..." I began angrily, but then stopped myself. I was forgetting, with Moira showing so much maturity at all times, that she was probably only a year or so older than Sarah. _And_ she came from the Old World, too: she was probably as superstitious as her lover.

I looked at Moira, and tried again. "I had a lovely time tonight, Moira. It was ... well, it was very different than what I expected to happen. I loved loving you, Moira, and Sarah. I'm sorry I bit Sarah harder than ... well, I guess I got carried away by the moment. But didn't you have ... wasn't tonight ...?"

This was so odd for me, not being able to express myself, but I realized I had never really talked over my intimate moments. I never really had any with Royce, and with the girls it was just pillow talk during the intimacy, and then I was gone after some cuddling. I didn't ever have to express feelings in words, because I never had to.

Moira, of all people, humble, shy, quiet, selfless Moira, rescued my inarticulation with her own. She wrapped me in a tender embrace.

It felt ...

But I pulled away. "I have to go, Moira; I cannot be gone this long."

I was, in fact, the Queen of the King household, and it was I that ruled as Royce put on airs, but there were appearance to keep up, and Mr. King did need to feel as if he were, indeed, the King in his own house, or that said house did become very unpleasant with his constant sulking and petulance. I had had more than my fair share of experience in this to know this all too well.

Moira nodded to the floor. I turned and left, but as I did, I thought I heard another whisper.

Maybe the whisper was 'I love you, Mistress.'

No. It couldn't be that. Moira loved Sarah, or thought she did. Her, being a child, like Sarah, she had no idea there was no room in this cold, cruel world for love. And even if there was: she loved Sarah; Sarah loved her.

Nobody loved me.

I returned to my bedchamber, going down the servants' stairs and up the stairs to our suites, to find Royce as before, snoring away in his oblivion. I crawled into bed right next to him and fell right to sleep.

It wasn't a blissful repose, but it never was. It may 'good to be a King,' but it wasn't pleasant. The lower classes had their work to keep them occupied and their fantasies of the good life of high society, and we Kings — we royalty — had _no__blesse oblige._ It was just the way things were.

* * *

[1] Actually, the leprechauns were not to be trifled with. Neil Gaiman's _American Gods_ shows the leprechauns, like all supernatural creatures and gods, were terrifying, even in their joy, even as they helped you.


	5. Breakfast at the King Estate

**Chapter summary: **War! or, put another way, "breakfast time at the King estate." Well, since our war happened every day, it wasn't newsworthy. I had to wonder what our son meant by his comment on his parents' "nighttime activities," however. Does he know?

* * *

Royce joined us, myself and the children, late, at table for breakfast.

"Good morning, Royce," I smiled pleasantly at him.

He looked at me with bleary eyes.

Mr. Brown served Royce the morning-after "cocktail." It was a variant of what they called, again, the "Bloody Mary" (when I had my début, it was called a "Red Snapper") with generous amounts of red pepper, Worcestershire sauce and egg yokes.

"Thank you, Mr. Brown," Royce said gratefully, quaffing it quickly, grimacing as the concoction hit him.

"Certainly, sir," was Mr. Brown's answer, correct and pleased.

Of course, Mr. Brown, being the head butler, was not supposed to be serving the morning curative. That's Royce's valet's job. But Mr. Brown worshipped the ground Royce walked on. It was if Mr. Brown saw none of Royce's failing nor escapades, and only saw this handsome, poised, well-bred, rich ... god. But turning a blind eye toward Royce's adventures, Mr. Brown always seemed to know when Royce needed something: whether it be a pick-me-up in the morning or to be left alone when he was (always) in one of his moods.

The hero worship wasn't anything sexual, and for that I was thankful. I'm glad Mother was wrong in her surmise about Royce's "preferences." She thought that Royce was gay (and not meaning 'happy' by any stretch of the imagination) because he made no advances toward me during our engagement.

Well, before our wedding, she also accused me of being that as well ...

I knew she was wrong about Royce at the time. I was right.

I thought I knew she was wrong about me. And ... well.

But I'm glad Royce isn't gay. Because controlling his lovers in that case?

I shuddered at the thought of it. And besides, how would that work? Men like to dominate. It's how they're made. If I were to follow Royce in his lovers if he were gay, it would be the men, even if they were servants, who would think they would be making me theirs, and not the other way around. It would be complete pandemonium in the house, and if word leaked out to the presses ...

Thank God Royce isn't gay!

And it wasn't self-serving of me at all to think this. Certainly, Royce was indirectly supplying me with a little bit of ... shall we say ... _spice?_ ... a little bit of ... _variety ..._ as he engaged in his own escapades through the household staff (another piece of advice from Mother that I followed to good effect: make sure Royce was present to approve the new hires, in that way keeping the affairs in house and under wraps, as opposed to them being out in public and dragged through the papers. Many a good family situation had been ruined by the too curious Fourth Estate). It wasn't self-serving at all. In this way, I could manage and maintain discipline better. If a girl got out of line, it was o! so much easier to bring her back into her place. If I had to do that with a man?

I mean, Royce, in and of himself, was already more than I wanted to manage.

But manage him I did. After all, _somebody_ had to be in control here.

My thoughts were interrupted by a bit of movement I caught from the corner of my eye. Royce III was looking between me and his father finishing off his curative.

Royce III (I refused to call him _Trey; _that was the name of Royce's friend from Atlanta. Certainly he was a well-heeled Southern Gentleman, but feeling I got from him just wasn't quite right. I made sure I was in company whenever he was in town, which was thankfully rarely) grimaced. I was pretty sure it wasn't the taste of the eggs benedict.

"Do you have something to say to us?" I asked my son.

"It's nothing, Mother," he responded, looking away, obviously displeased about something.

"Well, what is it?" I demanded. Royce had finished his curative, and was digging into his meal.

Royce III looked back at me. "It's Thursday morning, isn't it, Mother?" he asked tightly. "You both look so charming after last night's activities, with Father staggering in late to breakfast and you all aglow."

Royce chuckled, but I blanched. I had no idea that our schedule was so transparent to our children. And then I wondered. Royce III shouldn't have been judgmental of what Royce and I did as a married couple. I became suspicious. If he knew our schedule, did he also know the _other_ activities we engaged in?

No, he couldn't know that ... could he?

Apparently I wasn't the only person whose mind was sent to inquiry by my son's comments as Constance looked up in confusion. She asked: "What activities?"

I don't recall what I said to my daughter, as I was so affronted by the baldness of my son's implication, but it probably came out sharper than what it should have, because she turned pure white.

Royce III got up from the table.

"Where do you think you are going, young man?" I demanded. I tried to control my fury. At least I managed to control the volume of my voice.

"Hm," he responded insolently. "Thursday morning, right, Mother? Like every other weekday morning? That would be school. Remember, Mother? Allendale school for me and the Columbia school for the girls to raise the brood to be proper little examples you can show off at cocktail parties?"

He left the room, leaving me fuming.

"May we please be excused, too, Mother?" Constance asked humbly.

"Yes," I spat out. "Go!"

She collected Charity, and they left the room. Charity asked Constance, "Connie, why is Mama angry?"

Constance shushed her sister as they left.

That left me, staring at Royce, across the table. His valet, another Royce worshipper, brought in the morning paper, freshly ironed.

"Thank you, Henry," my husband said absently, but then he looked down at the headline.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed. He wasn't so disengaged anymore. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he screamed.

"Royce!" I exclaimed, shocked. "Language, please!"

I feared the children would hear his outburst, but Royce was beyond hearing me. He was beyond caring.

"Henry," he shouted. "Get me the God-damn tele-... oh!"

Henry was holding out the phone receiver for Royce.

"Dial the bank for me, will you?" Royce asked his valet.

Henry answered, cool as a cucumber: "Already dialed, sir; Mr. Hale is waiting on the line."

Royce took the receiver.

"Walt," he said. I hated that he called my father 'Walt' so casually like that. Like he was one of the servants or one of his _boys. _My father's name is _Mr. Hale,_ or if anything: _Walter, _but _never 'Walt,' _for goodness sake! I tried to convey this to Royce, but he never listened."Did you see the headlines today in the _Wall Street Journal?"_

Royce paused a second listening. "Okay," he said, no less consoled, "how are we holding up? How's the Benson account? How about the other accounts?"

He paused again. The Benson account had millions invested through us in international ventures.

"Okay, fine," he didn't sound like it was _fine. _"I'm coming in. I'll be there as soon as I can."

He paused and this time grimaced with impatience. "No, Walt, it's not that; I'm sure you've got it all under control, but I want to be right there if I'm needed for anything at all, we have too much on the line here for me to be a phone call and a half hour away. What would it say to our investors if I'm taking my ease at home with all this happening?"

Royce paused another second, but then interrupted the other side. "Okay, fine, we'll talk when I get in, okay? Okay, 'bye, I'll be in as soon as I can."

He handed the receiver back to Henry.

"Okay," he said, rising from the table, "gotta run!"

"Royce," I asked, concerned, "what is it?"

He shook his head. "The goddam commies have invaded!"

"What?" I asked shocked, "West Germany?" I knew giving those Russians anything would lead to trouble.

"No!" he answered impatiently. "Korea. Look, I've got to go now."

"Royce," I halted him with my voice, "shave and bathe first."

"Woman," Royce barked, "are you out of your mind? They need me there right now!"

"They need you there now," I answered coolly, controlling my temper, "as an example of a man who doesn't look frazzled by the events but who keeps his cool in crises _and_ _rises above them."_

Royce paused a second.

"Henry, ..." he began.

Henry was almost running out the door. "Drawing your bath as we speak, sir; your razor will be on the sink, already sharpened."

Royce followed fast on his valet's heels.

The room was starkly silent after the whirlwind that just took place.

"Susan ..." I began.

My maid looked at me blankly. "Yes, Mrs. King?"

I sighed. Why couldn't she anticipate me like Royce's servants did? It was really time to replace her.

"Would you please bring me the newspaper?" I made my desire explicit. It was the job of the lady of the household to know as much, no: more, than the husband as to what was going on that affected the household. Anything that affected the husband on the job affected his mood, and that, by default, affected the household.

The headline on the front page screamed "WAR!" in all capital letters with the byline: "38th Parallel Breached!"

I shook my head. The communists. What else would happen today?

...

Soon after the front entrance was abustle with both Royce and the children trying to leave at the same time.

"Gang way, kids!" Royce bellowed, rushing for the door.

The children leapt out of the way of the door. When their father said 'gang way' like that, like he had many times before at every financial crisis that arose, they knew to get out of the way or risk getting bowled over.

"Royce!" I called out.

Royce stopped in his tracks, literally putting himself back into the house by the doorframe.

"What!" he demanded impatiently.

"You'll be home for supper, right?" I demanded right back. That was one my rules. Royce needed to be at the head of the table for supper. He _needed_ to show the children that he was the _pater familias,_ the head of the household, the father-figure, because he _is their father._

Royce grimaced: "Look, honey, this is serious, okay? I'll be home when I can, but if I have to talk a client down from the ledge, I might be home late, okay? Really late!"

"So, this may be an exception," I said. Royce was visibly vibrating in place with his eagerness to be off. "But _you will call_ if you have to stay late, right?"

As Royce and I were talking, the children were sneaking out the door to their own limousine. Royce III was sulking as he left.

As my husband answered me quickly and distractedly, "Yes, yes, yes, I'll call." I, myself, called out, "Son, don't slouch!"

Royce turned to look at his son, as the boy in question, his posture still slouched but now defiant, demanded: "Why not, Mother?"

I swallowed what I was going to snap back to him and answered as calmly as I could: "Because you are a King, comport yourself that way."

Royce III regarded me with narrowed eyes: "So, do you mean for me behave like you and Father do, or do you mean behave like royalty behaves?"

My husband answered right away with pride in his voice. "Well, both, son, of course!"

But I knew how Royce and I behaved. And I knew how nobility behaved. And I knew, with all the reading Royce III has done, that he surely knew the latter. I wondered how much he knew in his implications of the former. If he did know, then I could answer neither. My son looked like he was pleased he had trapped me in my own guilt.

So my response came measured after a moment's thought, because Royce III was still staring at me, ignoring his father's oblivious response, waiting on mine.

"Behave," I said, "in a way that you would be pleased with and proud of the man you see in the mirror."

Royce III looked at me for a moment. It looked like he wanted to retort with whatever I would answer. I raised my eyebrow, waiting for what he would say. Would he call me out now?

Royce III straightened up from his slouch and walked stiffly out the door.

Charity, my youngest, looked up at him sadly. "Are you angry, too, Royce?"

Charity actually did look up to her brother in every way.

My son looked down at his little sister, and his demeanor softened: "I won't be if you hold my hand."

He held out his hand for her. She took his bigger hand into her tiny one and smiled at him.

"Cherri," he whispered down to her as looked toward her older sister.

Charity held out her other hand to Constance. Constance, after a second took it, and they walked off to the limousine and headed off to school.

Royce looked at me. "Did you see him take charge of the girls like that? That's a real man. A King. That's my boy!" he declared, pleased.

And he was off in his chariot, charging into the fray to save the world from Godless Communism.

Because our way of living was obviously _so much better._

I waved to Royce from the door as he was driven off, maintaining the image of the dutiful wife, but he didn't even see me, as his mind was already at the bank, fortifying itself to reassure panicky clients during this upheaval.

This _international upheaval, _I corrected myself. For the upheaval at the King breakfast table did not concern Royce's clients, so consequently did not concern him.

_Domestic upheavals_ were my concern, so I had to handle them. I turned back inside with a promise to myself: _and handle them I shall._

After all, I could handle anything. It was my beauty that had attracted Royce's attention originally, but my poise that kept it. I could rise above any situation, because I let nothing touch me.

As long as I maintained that cool detachment, everything would be fine.

* * *

[1] Hello, my lovelies. Well, I did it again. This chapter was supposed to have three times what I put into it, but I decided to break it up (again, as I did with the chapter (now chapters) of "activities" Rosalie engaged in last night) and give you this chunk today as a Christmas present, instead of delaying publication beyond the new year with a megachapter. I'll deliver the other two sections of this "chapter" when I am able to dedicate some keyboard time, okay?

[2] The morning-after cocktail is described in _My Man Jeeves_ by P.D. Wodehouse. It's a book filled with win. And, amazingly, it isn't written in Aeolic (one of the ancient Greek languages). Read it.

[3] Using the word 'gay' to describe a homosexuality was popular already in the 1930s when Rosalie was growing up. She would have heard the term and would have known what it meant, this being 1950 and all.

[4] Royce's friend, _Trey,_ was one of the men (named John III from Atlanta, Georgia) in that alley mentioned in _Eclipse,_ ch 7 ("Unhappy Ending"). Trey actually was the one who goaded Royce and the others to rape and to murder Rosalie that night. He didn't do that in this alternate history because he and Royce and his chums were elsewhere that night. Rosalie still (rightly) gets a bad vibe from him.

[5] The Allendale school for boys and the Columbia school for girls, both in Rochester, eventually merged in the 1960s. The Allendale school taught from the "country day" style: academics in the morning and athletics in the afternoon ... you know: the ancient Greek ideal education? The Columbia school for girls was a prep or finishing school. I went to neither, of course.


	6. What the Hell!

**Chapter summary:** Of all the insolent, ... egalitarian ... "Good morning, Mistress"? What next? Shall we all break bread together at the same table, too?

**WARNING:** Many, many droppings of the f-bomb in the chapter, but not in the _nice_ way as before-before, but in the not-nice _mean_ way, as before.

* * *

I went downstairs after breakfast to talk over the Independence Day preparations with Mr. Brown and Mrs. Wilson. _Of course,_ they had everything in hand, but I've found things were always handled with much more care and attention to detail when they knew the Mistress of the house would be checking up on things.

Not that anything ever slipped — not with _my_ staff — but this was an important event. As we had our hand in most of the goings on in Rochester, it was vital that we brought everyone of note beholden to us into the fold, as it were, to show our beneficence. And to show them that we were worthy to lord our position of wealth and power over them: the party would be lavish, extravagant.

Everybody needs somebody to look up to. And we weren't just somebody: we were the Kings.

I was talking with Mr. Brown, going over the courses for the banquet, again, before the ball. The servants kept a respectful distance, working frenetically, quietly and respectfully. They really weren't supposed to be working at all in my presence, but I was working, and I had to invade their space on occasion just to get things done. Not necessarily proper or old-school of me, but a necessary evil, coming so close to the event. The servants knew the drill. They stopped work when I entered a room, and waited until I waved them on, just as I had done in this case. They needed to get their day-to-day work done, along with all the preparations for the July 4th activities, and I needed to make sure everything was on schedule.

Mr. Brown was standing next to me, reviewing the sixth course, when Sarah entered the room, walking past Mr. Brown and me and said: "Good morning, Mistress," sweetly, smiling as she passed me. She then set to work, folding napkins.

I looked at Mr. Brown. His face stayed firmly fixed in its professionalism. His eyebrow was not climbing up into his bangs.

He was very good, not even showing his shock in front of his employer.

The other servants continued working as if nothing had happened, but I saw glances exchanged here and there. I saw Moira in a far corner, polishing the silver. Or trying to. She was pale and looking between me and Sarah.

"Excuse me, Mr. Brown," I said calmly, "I think I'll take a smoke now."

"Of course, Mrs. King," Mr. Brown said, equally cool, closing the portfolio.

"Would you like me to join you, Mrs. King?"

It was Mrs. Wilson. She wasn't anywhere in the servants' work area before that I had seen, but here she had materialized, right beside Mr. Brown, looking unperturbed.

But she knew she was in for it.

"Why, yes," I said to her, "that'd be nice."

We headed out to the courtyard. On our way out, Mrs. Wilson looked toward Moira, then looked out the door. Moira headed over to Sarah and whispered something, then pulled on her arm.

As Mrs. Wilson and I left, I heard Sarah's befuddled, "... but I don't smoke!"

It was a cute Irish accent, I would miss it if she didn't make it through this next 'conversation.'

Mrs. Wilson lit me a fag. She didn't light herself one. Smoking wasn't a good idea for her now. Not for this case. I discarded the filter on my cig and took a long pull, blowing the smoke out slowly. The two girls came out and joined us, one looking confused; the other, mortified.

I looked around the courtyard. The other smokers were leaving. Hastily.

"It's a bit warm out in the sun," I said to no one in particular. "Why don't we go under the tree in the shady corner?"

The shady corner. The corner farthest from the door. _The_ corner.

We walked over to it. The courtyard was a quadrangle, but it wasn't a perfect one. In this particular corner the building had additional space built out into the area, providing two opposite areas, providing privacy and separation for two groups, should they be congregating for a smoke break at the same time.

We were the only group this time.

I took another long pull, then ground the fag underfoot.

I looked at Mrs. Wilson. "What the hell happened in there just now?" I demanded quietly.

Sarah, sweet, little, innocent Sarah piped up defensively: "All I did was say 'hello.'"

Sweet, little, innocent ... _ignorant_ ... Sarah.

I stared right at Mrs. Wilson, watching her blanch at the utter impropriety of the girl. After a second, I raised my eyebrow at Mrs. Wilson and shook my head with disappointment.

Mrs. Wilson dropped her eyes.

I turned to the girl. She was beginning to catch the drift that something was up.

"What's wrong with me ..." she began. She wasn't catching the drift clearly enough, however.

I interrupted her. "Was I talking with you?" I asked.

"I ..." she tried again.

"_WAS I FUCKING TALKING TO YOU?" _I screamed. So much for this being a private conversation. They probably heard that in Ottawa, ... that'd be the capital of Canada, if you just got off the boat from Ireland.

The girl who just got off the boat from Ireland shut up.

"No," I answered her, and then I explained. "I was talking to Mrs. Wilson. That's how it works, see? I talk to Mrs. Wilson; you talk to Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Wilson talks to me. If you ever have something to say to your employer — _WHICH YOU FUCKING WON'T!_ — then _you _tell Mrs. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson tells _me."_

"The only people who talk to me," I said fiercely, "are Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Brown and my maid. You should have known that the first time you put on that cute little black uniform that _we_ provide for you. And I told you this explicitly last night. _I fucking hate repeating myself. _The only fucking time you talk to me is when you are answering a question I pose directly to you, and then the only answers you need to say are 'yes, Mrs. King' or 'no, Mrs. King,' and you better have damn good reasons for saying either. Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes, Mrs. ..." Poor Sarah was white.

But not white enough.

"_THAT WAS A FUCKING RHETORICAL QUESTION!"_

I rounded on Mrs. Wilson.

"And why am I even having to do this?" I gave free reign to my anger, towering over Mrs. Wilson, who didn't dare to look at me. "This was supposed to be _your job._ How the hell can any work get done when discipline goes to shit like this, hm? Answer me that Mrs. Wilson. Do you know what every single servant is doing right now back in there?"

I demonstrated, raising both my hands, mimicking parrots talking to each other as I hissed out gossipy sounds.

"Psst-psst-psst! _That's_ what they are doing," I said angrily, "instead of doing what they are supposed to be doing. You _know_ exactly what they are saying to each other. 'Oh, that's Mrs. King's new distraction ... she must be pretty fucking good if she can call Mrs. King 'Mistress' out in the open like that!'"

I shook my head. "What are you telling me, Mrs. Wilson? Are you saying you're tired of being the head housekeeper? You want to go back to some other task in this household and have me call you by your first name again?"

"Is that it?" I demanded when she didn't answer.

"Mrs. King," she said quietly, "if that that's what you wish, then ..."

"That's _not_ what I fucking wish," I answered imperiously, cutting her off. "What I fucking _wish_ for you to do is _your fucking job, which fucking includes training the new staff and keeping them in line!"_

I turned back to Sarah. "'Mistress,'" I instructed her, "is only for the bedroom. It's 'Mrs. King' when you're on the job, and only if you're really, really lucky from now on, little Sarah, you may call out 'Mistress' when I'm fucking the shit out of you, _and at no other time! Is that fucking clear?"_

My voice got louder and louder until it echoed from the other side of the courtyard.

Sarah shallowed convulsively, entirely cowed by me, and nodded fearfully.

"And you!" I rounded on Moira. She turned whiter, if that were at all possible. "Sarah's _your_ _lover_ that means she's _your responsibility._ She screws up like this, it's _your own fucking fault!_ You've been here long enough to know the ropes. You know the rules, be they written in the employee manual or otherwise, and _it's your job_ to make sure your little Irish doll knows them, too. Got it?"

Moira's lower lip quivered.

"Don't you dare cry on me!" I was right in her face.

Moira's breath came in short, ragged gasps. She was really working on bottling her emotions.

I took a step back an examined the three women.

"If anything, I'm the one who should be crying," I muttered. "How am I going to go back in there into that mess? You know what's going to be happening for the rest of the day? All the girls are going to be _all over_ Sarah: 'How was she to you? Did she this or Did she that?' and all the men? 'Let me straighten you out, darling! I'll meet you later tonight.' Mark my words. And, the o!-so-correct behavior I'll be facing from everybody that hides _absolutely fucking nothing of what they are actually fucking thinking!"_

I answered my own conundrum. "I'll tell you how I'm going to go back in there. I'm going to go back in there with my head held God-damn high, and I'm going to pretend like nothing happened — _because nothing fucking did, and that's the fucking story from all of you! _ In fact, that's what you're going to do, too: you're going to walk back in there and carry on."

I glared at them for a moment.

"_FUCK!"_ I shrieked, startling the two younger girls.

That pleased me a little bit. I was really put out that this incident had occurred, so openly in front of everybody like this. It would be a while before I could even pretend that my outward composure reflected anything like inward calm.

"_Mrs. Wilson,"_ I emphasized her proper name befitting her proper title. "Please take care of this discipline problem for me?" Then I added dismissively: "Thank you."

I turned on my heel and marched back toward the courtyard entrance.

I heard Mrs. Wilson say ruefully to the other girls. "I believe that's all that needs to be said for now. Return to work after you've composed yourselves." Then she added her own afterthought: "Let's not fuck up again, okay?"

I reentered the servants' area. Mr. Brown was standing off at a respectful distance, pretending to inspect the work going on in the kitchen.

Mrs. Wilson reentered soon after I did, walking right over to Mr. Brown, talking to him in low tones.

I went over to them. "Mr. Brown, we were looking at planned activities for the gala ball, correct?"

"Yes, Mrs. King," Mr. Brown said in an unaffected voice. He reopened his portfolio and summarized the meal up to the sixth course, then continued from there in detail.

Moira and Sarah reentered. Sarah went back to her napkins, Moira, her spoons.

I didn't hear a word Mr. Brown said, but he droned on, none-the-less. I waited a respectable amount of time before interrupting him. He paused, anticipating me.

"Mr. Brown, we'll pick this up later," I said, looking up the stairs to my escape. "I think a bit of riding will do me good."

"Of course, Mrs. King," responded ever-correct Mr. Brown. A servant ran off to warn the stable boys.

I left. Not one whisper trailed my wake. I felt not one single eye on me.

But they all knew. And I couldn't stand it any more, the pretense. I needed some time alone and some fresh air to clear my head, and the constant attention demanded by my horse would keep my mind distracted and also engaged.

After changing into my riding wear, I got the hell out of the house and rode one of my horses hard for a solid hour. It was a thoroughbred, so it reveled in the workout.

As did I.

* * *

[1] So, my dears, some fireworks in this chapter for your New Year's Eve. I'm sorry to say the next chapter is also going to be ... not particularly Rosy nor Happy (even though this story is about our Rosie who is supposed to be Happy, eh?). But after that it _may_ turn to some activities of a different variety than the strife in this grouping. So, sorry for this chapter, and sorry in advance for the next one, but I do hope you have a Happy New Year! ... with Happy new chapters to put you back in the _mood ... tee-hee!_

[2] Oh, and it's probably not a good idea to piss off Mrs. King. Avoid it if at all possible.

[3] I am gently reminded by one of my dear readers (and you all are dear to me, my dear readers!) that Rosalie, rich Rosalie, cursing up a storm in this chapter seems ... improper. Wouldn't she be skilled at scaring the death out of the girls without so much _salt_ in her language?

Yes, she would, but here's a few things.

a. This is the East Coast, or Back East, or "Up" East. I noticed that when I moved down to the mid-Atlantic that people talk differently — _very differently _— depending on which region of the U.S.A. they are in. Up Back East, we say the f-word every three words, and it doesn't mean anything. Yes, we really put off and sometimes scare visitors "who talk slow[ly] and with an 'accent.'" But, go work at Bell Labs, like my brother did for a while, and you'll get used to it after hour one. It's not an excuse for bad language (and you can tell the other person you don't like hearing that word), but it's one of the reasons why Rosalie cuts loose here.

b. And that's another reason. Rosalie had to keep her cool in front of her children then in front of her husband. Yes, she didn't do such a great job of it, but it was a lot of effort for her, being Rosalie King and always getting her way, so long as she rises above. So, she's already got a full head of steam on. Then this little servant so badly breaks the rules that everybody's not going to be thinking about work for at least a day but about this? About _her? _About _Rosalie King?_ And not admiringly but naughtily, even condescendingly? With the servants, she can blow off the steam (privately) because why? Because she considers them underlings, less than. Very wrong of her, but IC for Rosalie, I think.

c. Read about the Big Dogs. Yes, they can be cordial and unperturbed, ... when the business is booming and everything's going their way. But when things are going South (remember War's just been trumpeted in the newspapers) and the underlings are slacking off? Bill Gates. Steve Jobs. Other Top Dogs. They are famous for what? Their blow-ups. Yes, they get right in the trenches and dirty their hands (as Rosalie does here), but if you read testimonies from exposés by underlings, you find that they have blown people out just as often as they motivate with their "let's do this thing, dammit!" speeches. This was Rosalie's little "motivational" speech for her girls. That means she wants them to keep working for her, and well at that (remember her comment to Mrs. Wilson). But she just as easily might blow them out.

I hope not. I'm growing to like 'her girls.' But you've got to be tough to be under Rosalie's thumb, as a certain girl in a certain story in a certain cabin in a certain wood is finding out.

[4] So I hope that all (point [3]) explains Rosalie's salty and apparently OOC tirade. I'm sorry if I've turned you off with her potty mouth, but, in my view, that's what'd she say and how she'd say it. She won't, in future chapters, be so vehement, because, obviously, I think, her point got across rather well.


End file.
